


Window Pain

by SCFrankles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:04:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SCFrankles/pseuds/SCFrankles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is December. And behind every door and window there appears to be a Sherlock...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Window Pain

**Author's Note:**

> Written for WAdvent Open Post Day #1: [Doors and/or Windows](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1467650.html), at Watson's Woes on LJ. (And written very quickly, very late at night ^^")
> 
> Holmes and Watson are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Sherlock and John belong to Moffat and Gatiss, and the BBC.
> 
> * * *

John had a lie-in on the morning of the 1st of December. At 9 o’clock he drew back the curtains to be greeted by the sight of a new day—and Sherlock Holmes smiling at him from outside the window.

John had the window open in a flash. “How in hell’s name did you manage—! No, actually I don’t care. Just get in! Get in!”

He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and manhandled him into the room.

It was only when Sherlock was safely standing on his bedroom floor that something struck John.

“Are you wearing antlers?”

 

On the morning of the 2nd of December, John opened the door to the sitting room to be greeted by Sherlock popping out from behind the sofa in a red and green jerkin, and what looked suspiciously like tights.

“Oh, dear God!” 

John waited for his heart rate to fall and then made his way to the kettle.

“Nice outfit,” he called over his shoulder. “What are you—a jockey?”

“Would a jockey be wearing bells, John?” 

And Sherlock stalked off in a huff, tinkling as he went.

 

On the evening of the 3rd of December Greg came round, and John thought he might perhaps like to see the inside of Mrs. Hudson’s broom cupboard.

They stood there together giggling as John eased open the door—only to find Sherlock had already taken up residence within. This time he was dressed all in white, and was apparently sporting a plastic carrot as a nose.

Greg stared at him. “Why on earth do you want to be in the broom cupboard dressed like that?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Greg. “Well, why do both of _you_ want to be in the broom cupboard?”

“No reason! Doesn’t matter!” John slammed the door shut again. 

 

And so it went on throughout December. John couldn’t risk opening his wardrobe, the airing cupboard, the hatch to the loft, the cupboard under the stairs or even looking out of a window, without Sherlock jumping out at him in a ridiculous outfit. John’s nerves were in shreds. But at least it only seemed to happen once a day.

It all came to a head on the evening of the 24th. John opened the cupboard under the sink in order to find a cloth, and a scrunched up Sherlock threw fake snow in his face.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” said John, once he had finished coughing everything back up. “How kind of you.”

He glared down at his friend, sitting there in the cupboard with the door wide open and fake snow lying all around. 

And suddenly something clicked in John’s mind.

His eyes went wide. “Appearing when I opened doors and windows… All those costumes… Tell me—that wasn’t an _Advent calendar,_ was it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Always quick on the uptake, John. But yes. Yes, it was.” He beamed. “Did you enjoy it? I thought you would appreciate me making more of an effort for Christmas.”

John looked at him for a very, very long moment. 

Then he finally spoke. “It was a really kind thought, Sherlock. _Almost_ makes up for me spending the last three and a half weeks in a state of nervous collapse.”

He closed the cupboard door, smiling a little.

Sherlock was smiling too until he tried to open the door again. 

“John? I think…” He pushed against the door. “I think there might be something jamming the door closed...” He pushed again. “John! Have you locked me in this cupboard?”

But all through the house not a creature was stirring.

Not even a John Watson.


End file.
